"When the election of next year's captain comes off, my boy, it's a pretty sure thing that you'll have a chance at it. But if you'll take my advice you'll let it alone. I tell you this because I'm your friend all through. Next fall will be time enough for the honors; this year should go to hard work without any of the trouble that falls to the lot of captain."

"Thank you, Mr. Remsen," Joel answered. "I hadn't thought of their doing such a thing. I don't see why they should want me. But if it's offered you may be sure I'll decline. I'd be totally unfitted for it; and, besides, I haven't got the time!"

And so, when two weeks later the election was held in the gymnasium one evening, Joel did decline, to the evident regret of all the team, and the honor went to Christie, since both Blair and Whipple were seniors and would not be in school the next autumn. And Christie made a very manly, earnest speech, and subsequently called for three times three for Blair, and three times three for Remsen, and nine times three for Hillton, all of which were given with a will.

As the Christmas recess approached, Joel spent a great deal of valuable time in unnecessary conjecture as to his chance of winning the Goodwin scholarship, and undoubtedly lessened his chance of success by worrying. The winners were each year announced in school hall on the last day of the term. The morning of that day found Outfield West very busy packing a heap of unnecessary golf clubs and wearing apparel into his trunk and bags, and found Joel seated rather despondently on the lounge looking on. For West was to spend his vacation with an uncle in Boston, and Joel, although Outfield had begged him to go along, asserting positively that his uncle would be proud and happy to see him (Joel), was to spend the recess at school, since he felt he could not afford the expense of the trip home. West hesitated long over a blue-checked waistcoat and at length sighed and left it out.

"Isn't it most time to go over?" asked Joel.

"No; don't you be in a hurry. There's a half hour yet. And if you're going to get the Goodwin you'll get it, and there isn't any use stewing over it," replied West severely. "As for me, I'm glad I'm not a grind and don't have to bother my head about such tommyrot. Just sit on the lid of this pesky thing, Joel, will you? I'm afraid that last coat was almost too much for it."

But even suspense comes to an end, and presently Joel found himself seated by West in the crowded hall, and felt his face going red and pale by turns, and knew that his heart was beating with unaccustomed violence beneath his shabby vest. Professor Wheeler made his speech–and what a long one it seemed to many a lad!–and then the fateful list was lifted from the table.

"Senior class scholarships have been awarded as follows," announced the principal. "The Calvin scholarship to Albert Park Digbee, Waltham, Massachusetts." Joel forgot his unpleasant emotions while he clapped and applauded. But they soon returned as the list went on. Every announcement met with uproarous commendation, and boy after boy arose from his seat and more or less awkwardly bowed his recognition. The principal had almost completed the senior list.

"Ripley scholarships to George Simms Lennox, New York city; John Fiske, Brookville, Mississippi; Carleton Sharp Eaton, Milton, Massachusetts; William George Woodruff, Portland, Maine. Masters scholarships to Howard McDonnell, Indianapolis, Indiana; Thomas Grey, Yonkers, New York; Stephen Lutger Williams, Connellsville, Rhode Island; Barton Hobbs, Farmington, Maine; Walter Haskens Browne, Denver, Colorado; and Justin Thorp Smith, Chicago, Illinois."

Joel's hands were cold and his feet just wouldn't keep still. The principal leaned down and took up the upper middle class list. West nudged Joel smartly in the ribs, and whispered excitedly:

"Now! Keep cool, my boy, keep cool!"

Then Joel heard Professor Wheeler's voice reading from the list, and for a moment it seemed to come from a great distance.

"Upper middle class scholarships have been awarded as follows:" There was a pause while he found his place. "Goodwin scholarship to Harold Burke Reeves, Saginaw, Michigan."

West subsided in his seat with a dismal groan. Joel did not hear it. It is doubtful if he heard anything until several minutes later, when the pronouncement of his name awoke him from the lethargy into which he had fallen.

"Masters scholarships to Joel March, Marchdale, Maine–"

"It's better than nothing, Joel," whispered Outfield. "It's fifty dollars, you know." But Joel made no reply. What was a Masters to him who had set his heart on the first prize of all? Presently, when the lists were over, he stole quietly out unnoticed by his chum, and when West returned to the room he found Joel at the table, head in hands, an open book before him. West closed the door and walked noiselessly forward in the manner of one in a sick-room, At length he asked in a voice which strove to be natural and unconcerned:

"What are you doing, Joel?"

The head over the book only bent closer as its owner answered doggedly:

"Studying Greek!"

CHAPTER XV.
THE BOAT RACE

The balance of that school year was a season of hard study for Joel. It was not in his nature to remain long despondent over the loss of the Goodwin scholarship, and a week after the winter term commenced he was as cheerful and light-hearted as ever. But his failure served to spur him on to renewed endeavors, and as a result he soon found himself at the head of the upper middle. Rightly or wrongly–and there is much to be said on both sides–he gave up sports almost entirely. Now and then West persuaded him to an afternoon on the links, but this was infrequent. The hockey season opened with the first hard ice on the river, and West joined the team that met and defeated St. Eustace in January. There was one result of his application to study that Joel had not looked for. Outfield West, perhaps from a mere desire to be companionable, took to lessons, and, much to his own pretended dismay, began to earn the reputation of a diligent student.

"You won't talk," growled West, "you won't play chess, you won't eat things. You just drive a chap to study!" As spring came in the school talk turned to baseball and rowing. For the former Joel had little desire, but rowing attracted him, and he began to allow himself the unusual pleasure of an hour away from lessons in the afternoon that he might go down to the boathouse with West, and there, in a sunny angle of the building, watch the crews at work upon the stream. Hillton was trying very hard to turn out a winning crew, and Whipple, who was captain of the first eight, toiled as no captain had toiled before in the history of Hillton aquatics.

The baseball season ended disastrously with a severe drubbing for the Hillton nine at the hands of St. Eustace on the latter's home ground. The fellows said little, but promised to atone for it when the boat race came off. This occurred two days before class day, which this year came on June 22d, and very nearly every pupil traveled down the river to Marshall to witness it. The day away from school came as a welcome relief after the worry and brain-aching of the spring examination, and Joel, although he knew for a certainty that he had passed with the highest marks, was glad to obey Outfield's stern decree and accompany that youth to the scene of the race.

They went by train and arrived at the little town at noon. After a regal repast of soup and sandwiches, ice cream and chocolate éclairs, the two set out for the river side. The Hillton crew had come down the day before with their new shell, and had spent the night at the only hotel in the village. The race was to be started at three, and West and Joel spent the intervening time in exploring the river banks for a mile in each direction from the bridge, and in getting their feet wet and their trousers muddy.

By the hour set for the start the river sides were thronged with spectators, and rival cheers floated across the sparkling stream from bank to bank. That side of the river whereon St. Eustace Academy lies hidden behind a hill held the St. Eustace supporters, while upon the other bank the Hillton lads and their friends congregated. But the long bridge, something more than a mile below, was common ground, and here the foes mingled and strove to outshout each other.

The river is broad here below Marshall, and forms what is almost a basin, hemmed in on either side by low wooded bluffs. From where Joel and West, with a crowd of Hillton fellows, stood midway upon the bridge, the starting point, nearly a mile and a half up stream was plainly visible, and the finish line was a few rods above them. West was acquainted with several of the St. Eustace boys, and to these Joel was introduced and was welcomed by them with much cordiality and examined with some curiosity. He had accomplished the defeat of their Eleven, and they would know what sort of youth he was.

While they were talking, leaning against the railing of the bridge, Joel suddenly caught West's arm and drew his attention to a boy some distance away who was looking toward the starting point through a pair of field glasses. West indulged in a long whistle, plainly indicative of amazement.

"Who's that fellow over there?" he asked. One of the St. Eustace boys followed the direction of his gaze.

"Well, you ought to know him. He knows you. That's Bartlett Cloud. He was at Hillton last term, and left because he was put off the Eleven; or so he says."

"Humph!" ejaculated Outfield West. "He left to keep from being expelled, he did. He left because he was mixed up in some mighty dirty work, and knew that, even if they let him stay in school, no decent fellow would associate with him. And you can tell him from me that if he says I know him he's a liar. I don't know him from–from mud! I should think you'd be proud of him at Eustace."

"We didn't know that," answered the St. Eustace boy in perplexity. "We thought–"

"What?" demanded West as the other paused.

"Well, he said that the coach was down on him, and gave his place to your friend here, and–"

"No," answered Joel quietly. "I didn't take his place. He tried to strike me one day at practice, and Remsen, our coach, put him off. That was all. Afterward he–he–But it isn't worth talking about."

"But I didn't know that St. Eustace made a practice of taking in cast-off scamps from other schools," said West. The other lad flushed as he answered apologetically:

"We didn't know, West. He said he was a friend of yours and so–But the other fellows shall know about him." Then there was a stir on the bridge and a voice cried, "There they go to the float!"

Up the stream at the starting point two shells were seen leisurely paddling toward a float anchored a few yards off the right bank. The colors were easily distinguishable, and especially did the crimson of Hillton show up to the eager watchers on the bridge. Every eye was turned toward the two boats, and a silence held the throng, a silence which lasted until sixteen oar-blades caught the water almost together, and the two boats began to leave the float behind. Then cries of "They're off!" were raised, and there was a general shoving and pushing for places of observation on the up-stream side of the structure, while along the banks the crowds began to move about again.

It was Joel's first sight of a boat race, and he found himself becoming very excited, while West, veteran though he was, breathed a deal faster, and talked in disjointed monosyllables.

"Side by side!… No, Hillton's ahead!… Isn't she?… Eh … You can't… see from here … which is … leading.... Get another hold on my … arm, … Joel; that one's black … and blue! … Hillton's ahead! Hillton's ahead by a half length!"

But she wasn't. Side by side the two shells swept on toward the first half-mile mark. They were both rowing steadily, with no endeavor to draw away, Hillton at thirty strokes, St. Eustace at thirty-two. The course was two miles, almost straight away down the river. The half-mile buoy was not distinguishable from where Joel stood, but the mile was plainly in sight. Some one who held a stop-watch behind Joel uttered an impatient growl at the slow time the crews were making.

"There'll be no record broken to-day," he said. "They're eight seconds behind already for the first quarter."

But Joel didn't care about that. If only those eight swaying forms might pass first beyond the finish line he cared but little what the time might be. The cheering, which had ceased as the boats left the start, now began again as they approached the finish of the first quarter of the course.

"Rah-rah-rah; rah-rah-rah; rah-rah-rah, Hillton!" rang out from the right bank.

"S, E, A; S, E, A; S, E, A; Saint Eustace!" replied the left bank with a defiant roar of sound that was caught by the hills and flung back in echoes across the water. "Saint Eustace! Saint Eustace! Saint Eustace!" "Hillton! Hillton! Hillton!"

Then the cheering grew louder and more frenzied as, boat to boat, the rival eights passed the half-mile buoy, swinging along with no perceptible effort over the blue, dancing water.

"Anybody's race," said Outfield West, as he lowered his glasses. "But Hillton's got the outside course on the turn." The turn was no more than a slight divergence from the straight line at the one-mile mark, but it might mean from a half to three quarters of a length to the outside boat should they maintain their present relative positions. For the next half mile the same moderate strokes were used until the half-course buoy was almost reached, when Hillton struck up to thirty-two and then to thirty-four, and St. Eustace increased her stroke to the latter number. It was a race for the position nearest the buoy, and St. Eustace won it, Hillton falling back a half length as the course was changed. Then the strokes in both boats went back to thirty-two, Hillton seemingly willing to keep in the rear. On and on they came, the oars taking the water in unison, and shining like silver when the sun caught the wet blades. And back, the wakes seemed like two ruled marks, so straight they were. There was no let up of the cheering now. Back and forth went challenge and reply across the stream, while the watchers on the bridge fairly shook that iron-trussed structure with the fury of their slogans.

As the boats neared the three-quarter buoy it was plain to all who looked that the real race was yet to come. Hillton suddenly hit up her stroke to thirty-four, to thirty-six, to thirty-eight, and, a bit ragged perhaps, but nevertheless at a beautiful speed, drew up to St. Eustace, shoved her nose a quarter length past, and hung there, despite St. Eustace's best efforts to shake her off.

Both boats were now straining their uttermost, and from now on to the finish it was to be the stiffest rowing of which each was capable. Hillton was ragged on the port side, and bow was plainly tuckered. But St. Eustace also showed signs of wear, and there was an evident disposition the length of the boat to hurry through the stroke. Joel was straining his eyes on the crimson backs, and West was vainly and unconsciously endeavoring to see through the glasses from the wrong end. The three-quarter mark swept past the boats, and Hillton still maintained her lead.

The judges' boat, a tiny, saucy naphtha launch, had steamed down to the finish, and now quivered there as though from impatience and excitement, and awaited the victor. Suddenly there was a groan of dismay from the St. Eustace supporters. And no wonder. Their boat had suddenly dropped behind until its nose was barely lapping the rival shell. Number Four was rowing "out of time and tune," as Joel shouted triumphantly, and although he soon steadied down, the damage was hard to repair, for Hillton, encouraged by the added lead, was rowing magnificently.

But with strokes that brought cries of admiration even from her foes St. Eustace struggled gloriously to recover her lost water. Little by little the nose of her boat crept up and up, until it was almost abreast with Number Three's oar, while cries of encouragement from bridge and shore urged her on. But now Green, the Hillton coxswain, turned his head slightly, studied the position of the rival eight, glanced ahead at the judges' boat, and spoke a short, sharp command.

"Instantly the crimson crew seemed to lift their boat from the water."

And instantly, ragged port oars notwithstanding, the crimson crew seemed to lift their boat from the water at every stroke, and St. Eustace, struggling gamely, heroically, to the last moment, fell farther and farther behind. A half length of clear water showed between them, then a length, then–and now the line was but a stone-throw away–two fair lengths separated the contestants. And amid the deafening, frenzied shrieks of their schoolmates, their crimson-clad backs rising and falling like clock-work, all signs of raggedness gone, the eight heroes swept over the line winners by two and a half lengths from the St. Eustace crew, and disappeared under the bridge to emerge on the other side with trailing oars and wearied limbs.

And as they went from sight, Joel, stooping, yelling, over the railing, saw, with the piercing shriek of the launch's whistle in his ears, the upraised face of Green, the coxswain, smiling placidly up at him.

CHAPTER XVI.
GOOD-BY TO HILLTON

Joel took the preliminary examination for Harwell University in June, and left class day morning for home. He had the satisfaction of seeing his name in the list of honor men for the year, having attained A or B in all studies for the three terms. The parting with Outfield West was shorn of much of its melancholy by reason of the latter's promise to visit Joel in August. The suggestion had been made by Outfield, and Joel had at once warmly pressed him to come.

"Only, you know, Out," Joel had said, "we don't live in much style. And I have to work a good deal, so there won't be much time for fun."

"What do you have to do?" asked West.

"Well, milk, and go to mill, and perhaps there will be threshing to do before I leave. And then there's lots of other little things around the farm that I generally do when I'm home."

"That's all right," answered West cheerfully. "I'll help. I milked a cow once. Only–Say, what do you hit a cow with when you milk her?"

"I don't hit her at all," laughed Joel. "Do you?"

"I did. I hit her with a plank and she up and kicked me eight times before I could move off. Perhaps I riled her. I thought you should always hit them before you begin."

Joel had not seen his parents since he had left home in the preceding fall, and naturally a warm welcome awaited him. Mr. March, to Joel's relief, did not appear to regret the loss of the Goodwin scholarship nearly as much as Joel himself had done, and seemed rather proud than otherwise of the lad's first year at the Academy.

In August Outfield West descended at the little station accompanied by two trunks, a golf-bag, a photograph camera, and a dress-suit case; and Farmer March regarded the pile of luggage apprehensively, and undoubtedly thought many unflattering thoughts of West. But as no one could withstand that youth for long, at the end of three days both Joel's father and mother had accepted him unreservedly into their hearts. As for Joel's brother Ezra, and his twelve-year-old sister, they had never hesitated for a single instant.

Mr. March absolutely forbade Joel from doing any of the chores after West arrived at the farm, and sent the boys off on a week's hunting and fishing excursion with Black Betty and the democrat wagon. West took his camera along, but was prevailed on to leave his golf clubs at the farm; and the two had eight days of ideal fun in the Maine woods, and returned home with marvelous stories of adventure and a goodly store of game and fish.

West was somewhat disappointed in the golfing facilities afforded by the country about Marchdale, but politely refrained from allowing the fact to be known by Joel. Outside of the "pasture" and the "hill-field" the ground was too rocky and broken to make driving a pleasure, and after losing half a dozen balls Outfield restricted himself to the pasture, where he created intense interest on the part of the cows. He found that he got along much more peaceably with them when he appeared without his red coat.

In September, happy, healthy, and well browned, the two boys returned to Hillton with all the dignity becoming the reverend Senior. West had abandoned his original intention of entering Yates College, and had taken with Joel the preliminary examination for Harwell; and they were full of great plans for the future, and spent whole hours telling each other what marvelous things awaited them at the university.

Joel's Senior year at Hillton was crowded with hard work and filled with incident. But, as it was more or less a repetition of the preceding year, it must needs be told of briefly. If space permitted I should like to tell of Joel's first debate in the Senior Debating Society, in which he proved conclusively and to the satisfaction of all present that the Political Privileges of a Citizen of Athens under the Constitution of Cleisthenes were far superior to those of a Citizen of Rome at the Time of the Second Punic War. And I should like to tell of the arduous training on the football field and in the gymnasium, by means of which Joel increased his sphere of usefulness on the Eleven, and learned to run with the ball as well as kick it, so proving the truth of an assertion made by Stephen Remsen, who had said, "With such long legs as those, March, you should be as fine a runner as you are a kicker."

And I should like to go into tiresome detail over the game with St. Eustace, in which Joel made no star plays, but worked well and steadily at the position of left half-back, and thereby aided in the decisive victory for Hillton that Remsen had spoken of; for the score at the end of the first half was, Hillton 5, St. Eustace 0; and at the end of the game, Hillton 11, St. Eustace 0.

Joel and Remsen became fast and familiar friends during that term, and when, a few days after the St. Eustace game, Remsen took his departure from the Academy, no more to coach the teams to glorious victory or honorable defeat, Joel of all the school was perhaps the sorriest to have him go. But Remsen spoke hopefully of future meetings at Harwell, and Joel and West waved him farewell from the station platform and walked back to the yard in the manner of chief mourners at a funeral.

Outfield West again emerged triumphant from the golf tournament, and the little pewter mug remained securely upon his mantel, a receptacle for damaged balls. For some time the two missed the familiar faces of Digbee and Blair and Whipple and some few others. Somers and Cooke still remained, the latter with radiant hopes of graduation the coming June, the former to take advanced courses in several studies. Clausen was a frequent visitor to Number Four Hampton, and both West and Joel had conceived a liking for him which, as the year went by, grew into sincere friendship. Those who had been intimate with Wallace Clausen when he was under the influence of Bartlett Cloud saw a great difference in the lad at this period. He had grown manlier, more earnest in tone and attainments, and had apparently shaken off his old habit of weak carelessness as some insects shed their skins. He, too, was to enter Harwell the coming fall, a fact which strengthened the bond between the three youths.

One resolve was uppermost in Joel's heart when he began his last year at Hillton, and that was to gain the Goodwin scholarship. His failure the year before had only strengthened his determination to win this time; and win he did, and was a very proud and happy lad when the lists were read and the name of "Joel March, Marchdale, Maine," led all the rest. And it is to be supposed that there was much happiness in the great rambling snow-covered farmhouse up north when Joel's telegram was received; for Joel could not wait for the mail to carry the good news, but must needs run at once to the village and spend a bit of his prospective fortune on a "night message."

Despite this fortune of two hundred and forty dollars, Joel elected to spend his Christmas holidays again at Hillton, and Outfield, when he learned of the intention, declined his uncle's invitation and remained also. The days passed quickly and merrily. There was excellent skating on the river, and Joel showed West the methods of ice-fishing, though with but small results of a finny nature.

Cicero's Orations gave place to De Senectute, the Greek Testament to Herodotus, and Plane Geometry to Solid; and spring found Joel with two honor terms behind him, and as sure as might be of passing his final examination for college.

Again in June St. Eustace and Hillton met on the river, and, as though to atone for her defeat on the gridiron, Fate gave the victory to St. Eustace, the wearers of the blue crossing the finish a full length ahead of the Hillton eight. The baseball team journeyed down to Marshall and won by an overwhelming majority of runs, and journeyed home again in the still of a June evening, bringing another soiled and battered ball to place in the trophy case of the gymnasium.

And finally, one bright day in early summer, Joel put on his best clothes and, accompanied by West and Clausen, took his way to the chapel, where, amid an eloquent silence, Professor Wheeler made his farewell address, and old, gray-haired Dr. Temple preached the Valedictory Sermon. Then the diplomas were presented, and, save for the senior class exercises in the school hall in the afternoon, Class Day was over, and Joel March's school days were past. Joel was graduated at the head of the class, an honor man once more; and Outfield West, greatly to every one's amazement, not excepting his own, was also on the honor list. Cooke passed at last, and later confided to West that he didn't know what he'd do now that they wouldn't let him stay longer at Hillton; he was certain he would feel terribly homesick at Harwell. West playfully suggested that he stay at Hillton and take an advanced course, and Cooke seemed quite in the notion until he found that he would be obliged to make the acquaintance of both Livy and Horace.

A lad can not stay two years at a school without becoming deeply attached to it, and both Joel and West took their departures from Hillton feeling very melancholy as the wooded hill, crowned by the sun-lit tower, faded from sight. West went directly to his home, although Joel had tried to persuade him to visit at Marchdale for a few weeks. In July Joel received a letter from Outfield asking him to visit him in Iowa, and, at the solicitation of his parents, he decided to accept the invitation. The West was terra incognita to Joel, and he found much to interest and puzzle him. The methods of farming were so different from those to which he had been accustomed that he spent the first week of his stay in trying to revolutionize them, much to the amusement of both Outfield and his father. He at length learned that Eastern ways are not Western ways, and so became content to see wheat harvested by machinery and corn cultivated with strange, new implements.

He received one day a letter forwarded from Marchdale which bore the signature of the captain of the Harwell Varsity Football Eleven. It asked him to keep in practice during the summer, and, if convenient, to report on the field two days before the commencement of the term. Remsen's name was mentioned and Joel knew that he had him to thank for the letter.

The friends had decided to take a room together, and had applied for one in the spring. Much to their gratification they were given a third floor room in Mayer, one of the best of the older college dormitories. When the time came for going East both West and Joel were impatient to be on the way. Mrs. West accompanied the boys, and the little party reached the old, elm-embowered college town four days before the opening of the term. Agreeably to the request of the football captain, Joel reported on the field in football togs the day after reaching town, and was given a cordial welcome. Captain Button was not there, but returned with the Varsity squad from a week's practice at a neighboring village two days later.

Mrs. West meanwhile toiled ceaselessly at furnishing the boys' room, and the result was a revelation to Joel, to whom luxurious lounges and chairs, and attractive engravings, were things hitherto admired and longed for from a distance. And then, bidding a farewell to the lads, Outfield's mother took her departure for home, and they were left practically rulers of all they surveyed, and, if the truth were told, a trifle sobered by the suddenness of their plunge into independence.

And one warm September day the college bell rang for chapel and the two lads had begun a new, important, and to them exciting chapter of their lives.